


The hunt

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/F, Post Lethal White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: After somebody tries to kill Robin and Strike, they start a hunt for their enemies.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	1. Eviction

**Chapter 1:**

All Strike could hear was the intense rain ricocheting on the windows while he stared at the white envelope between his big, hairy hands. Red, capital letters on the envelope said a firm 'Eviction Order'. Their building had, months ago, been bought by a developer, so Strike had half-expected this letter for a long time, yet he hadn't mentioned a word about it to his colleague, professional partner, and close friend, Robin Ellacott, who sat at her desk on the adjacent room, typing away. Now, Strike knew he couldn't wait a day more. It was six in the afternoon of a cold September day, and the bad news were impossible to ignore a second more.

Feeling his neck get rigid just by imagining Robin's awful reaction to the news, the tall, broad senior detective stood up, threw the envelope on his dark desk and walked outside his inner office, to the entry where Robin's desk was.

“How's it going?” he asked nonchalantly, trying to sound calm.

“Uhm...” Robin's blue-grey eyes didn't look away from the computer screen, and a strawberry-blonde lock of hair fell on her nose, making her look impossibly cute. “Almost...” she typed a bit more, her fingers moving quickly. “Finished!” she declared, pressing entry with a satisfied smile and looking at him. Her smile immediately dropped, and he cursed her ability to read him so well after a two-year friendship. “What's wrong?”

“No one's sick, no one's dying,” he assured right away, flopping on the sofa and patting the space next to him so Robin sat next to him, which she quickly did, turning to face him, looking anxious. He took a deep breath and said it. “We are getting evicted from here.”

Her eyes widened in surprise and shock and her lips parted.

“What?! Why?! We've paid everything, I'm sure...”

“We have, it's not about that,” Strike quickly assured. “Back in the summer, I got a letter saying a developer had bought most of Denmark Street. One of the building they've bought is this one. Now, the developer has decided to evict us and reshape this building into an apartment one.” He explained as calmly as he could.

“Don't we get to complain? We've got Ilsa, we could-”

“No,” Strike's lips curved into a soft smile. “I already checked with Ilsa months ago. What they're doing is inhumane, but perfectly legal.” Robin frowned and closed her mouth, looking baffled.

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” Robin asked then. “I could've had months to help look for a new office, find you a new flat... when are we getting evicted?”

“We've got two weeks to clear-out. I suspected this would happen soon, so I've been packing my things and, now that you've moved out of Nick and Ilsa's and into Rebeca's flat, I've been storing them there. Pretty much everything is there already, except furniture, but we would need to pack-up the office. Nick said we could store things in their studio and work from there until we find an office, if we can't find one fast enough... we wouldn't be able to have clients come over, because disclosing their home location could put them in danger given the nature of some of our clients, but-”

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” she repeated, more firmly.

He looked at her serious for a moment and then shrugged.

“I didn't want to worry you. I thought perhaps I could convince you to move out before we got the eviction order, and you would never have to know we didn't leave on free will.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, getting up.

“Well, it's all right. I'll get on with research tomorrow, we'll find somewhere else. It's sad, but-” there was a firm knock on the door. “We're closed for the day, come back tomorrow at eight!”

The door wasn't locked, but none of them expected it to suddenly burst open, and eight people dressed in black, with gloves and balaclavas that covered their faces pretty completely, and completely covered in black, rushed in. Strike stood up, Robin screamed, but soon they were engaged in a fight. Four went for Robin and four for Strike, and both detectives started body-to-body fighting. Strike, more trained thanks to years of boxing, managed to knock one out quickly, and throw them towards another attacker, taking two down, before he received a punch on the temple that threw him against the wall, followed by another to the throat, a punch on the stomach and a kick on the stump, all so fast that he could hardly react, and fell to the ground. Before he could manage to get up, a chair was thrown on his back and he lost conscience, hearing Robin's screams as the last thing.

An explosion woke him up what seemed like seconds later. He woke up and groaned in pain. Everything looked like yellowish fog, and it was hard to see, and too warm. The environment smelled of burning wood. Strike got on all fours and tried to ignore the pain coming from everywhere, and stood up. His leg hurt, but he managed to adjust the prosthesis and could walk with only a slight limp. The entire office was full of smoke, and it seemed empty, although it was all trashed, with papers thrown on the ground. He felt his heart hammering in panic.

“Robin?!” he shouted. “Robin!”

In that moment, his eyes noticed a red pool by the kitchenette, next to the kettle thrown on the floor.

“Robin,” he muttered, and rushed towards it. There, lying on the ground without moving, was Robin. Strike knelt by her side and cupped her face, brushing her hair away to look at her. Her cheek bone looked broken and she had blood from a cut on her lip. “Robin!” he could feel panic creeping as he looked down. Her stomach was bleeding copiously, and the paleness of her skin indicated she could've bleed out already. Strike didn't think twice; he took off his jumper and twisted it to form a rope that he tied around Robin's stomach, making pressure over the wound. “Come on, Robin. You're the strongest person I know; you can make it.”

By that moment, he had already diagnosed that the building was in flames. It was raining heavily outside, but if the flames were inside, the rain would not help much yet, so he had to do something. The fire blocked the only ways out, and the fall from the window would be of two storeys down, which was too much, even if he managed to throw the mattress of his flat to the street, along with sofa cushions, to soften the fall. Robin's life was in immediate danger of finishing in minutes on its own, he couldn't risk throwing her. If there was an alternative, he'd take it.

Strike opened the tap as much as it would go, putting the plug on so the sink would fill with water. He rushed to the toilet just outside the office, in the corridor, and did the same. The plumbs could explode at any point and water stop coming, but he'd take as much as it could go. The looked down the staircase hole, covering his face with one arm and feeling his face hot as if he was looking inside an oven. Downstairs it was all flames and dark smoke, and the visibility was poor, but Strike believed the fire was only in the ground floor for now. He rushed to the floor below, coughing more as he struggled to breathe, his skin breaking out in sweat, and with a good shoulder hit broke Mr Crowdy's studio door open, and in his toilet, did the same process. He knew he wasn't going to stop the fire this way, but he also knew the floor was wooden, and if he provoked a micro flood, the water would easily filter through the floor and into the fire, which could slow down the speed of it extending. Perhaps if the floor was so wet, the fire wouldn't catch onto it, Strike didn't know, but in the panic-filled brain, it was the best he could do. His eyes burned and he no longer felt the pain, as he ran back to the office and took Robin up in his arms. He knew she was still alive, he could feel the pulse still.

“Don't you die on me, okay? You won't join the list. You can't do that to me.”

He coughed harder and opened the window just a moment to see there was people on the street, so the ambulance was on its way. He shouted for help and he got a shout of 'they're coming' so he closed the window again, feeling it warm under his fingers, and with Robin bride style between his arms, he rushed to his flat, closing all doors on the process. He opened all his tabs again, once he had left Robin on his bed, and soaked a sheet, that he pressed on the lower part of his door to try and keep the smoke at bay. Here they could breathe better. Robin was still bleeding a lot, so he used another sheet tied around her to keep pressure, as he couldn't do it with his hands while he was trying to keep them alive. He then took his mobile and phoned Wardle, telling him everything that was happening. DI Eric Wardle was in the Met, and knowing they were both in there, he would rush the rescue process. Wardle promised to be on his way. Only as he hung up, could Strike hear the sirens, and he turned to Robin, cradling her in his arms and pressing her hands against her wound.

“Come on, Robin.” he whispered against her forehead, his face half covered in blood. “Stay alive for me.”

He kept his ears open, not just to the cracks of the wood in the floors below and the noise of things burning down, but also to the sirens of the firemen coming closer, until a loudspeaker voice asked if there was anyone inside the building. Strike left Robin aside and opened his window, throwing an arm out.

“Here!” Strike shouted. “I've got a stabbed woman with me! We were attacked! Please help me get her out!” The fireman had been speaking from his position on a small platform that a truck had elevated to practically be on his face. The man nodded and shouted instructions to the firemen.

“Can you get her to the window? We'll take her,” the fireman said. Strike nodded and rushed back down. Other firemen were directing their hoses to the building on fire, and meanwhile he rushed to Robin, hoping she was still alive, and between the fireman and he, they managed to put her through the window and into the fireman's arms. “I'll come back for you.” He assured, before ordering the truck drivers to get him down.

An ambulance had just sprinted down Denmark Street, parking between the multitude that had formed in the darkness of the evening, and Strike observed anxiously as the fireman passed Robin to other fireman on the ground the minute he was lowered enough, and they rushed her to the ambulance, where paramedics were already preparing to receive her. The fireman came back for him, as he had promised.

“How do we do this?” Strike asked. “The window's too small for me...”

“No worries,” the fireman pulled a hammer from a little belt of tools he was wearing, and hammered the lower part of the window with strength, until the wood gave in. “You have to hurry, the moment the fire reaches the gas, the building could explode big.” He said, as he hammered more to bring the wall to open-up just a little. It was good luck that this was a cheap building, of those with hollow walls and wood, without much brick or stone, as it's typical in many northern countries and Anglo-Saxon places. “I think you can make it now. I'll pull from you, okay? Don't look down.”

“I'm very heavy, you know? You sure you don't need a mate?” Strike asked.

“I'm sure. They've put the elastic mattress underneath anyway, in case you fall. No worries.” It took struggle and technique, but finally Strike wriggled to sit on the window and with the fireman's help, made it onto the platform. He was shaking like a leaf from cold and anxiousness by the time he made it to the ambulance.

“Cormoran!” Wardle had arrived, and ran to him. The ambulance door was open, Robin's one having closed and left already, but Strike was being lied down on a stretcher in his, with his prosthesis removed. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Strike grumbled, as a paramedic put an IV into his arm. “Robin, she might be dying. I need to call her family...”

“Vanessa is already doing it,” Wardle assured. “Who can I call for you?”

“Call Ilsa Herbert,” he said. “She's a lawyer, my best friend. She lives in Octavia Street, Wandsworth, is married to Doctor Nick Herbert. Tell them to stick to the arse of Robin's doctor, and not leave her side, she's already been taken to the hospital.”

“We're ready to go,” a paramedic said.

“I'll talk to you in the hospital,” promised Wardle, and jumped out of the ambulance.

“Don't worry, Mr Strike,” a young, blonde paramedic, said, looking into his eyes with a tiny lantern that bothered him. “You're mostly fine.”

“I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about my partner, she was stabbed... the fire was provoked, we were assaulted, and if she dies-,”

“She won't die,” the paramedic reassured gently. “You'll be in the same hospital, and you'll see her soon. Stay hopeful for her. Now, I'm going to put an oxygen mask on you, okay? Thankfully you didn't breathe much smoke, but your breathing still sounds a little harsh...”

Strike closed his eyes and tried to calm his raging heart. Robin couldn't be dead. She simply couldn't.

  
  



	2. Duo

**Chapter 2:**

The intermittent beeping of machines awoke Strike, and as his eyes opened, he immediately heard a sigh of relief.

“I told you he was fine,” he heard Nick say. “It's just the drugs, they knock a horse down.”

Strike coughed and looked around. He was in what looked like the Emergency Room of a hospital, and his bed was surrounded by Nick and Ilsa, his best friends, joined by his younger sister Lucy and DI Eric Wardle, with his partner DS Vanessa Ekwensi. They all looked anxious and worried.

“How are you feeling, Corm?” Lucy asked softly, her blue eyes filled with concern, as he caressed his bearded cheek. He was leaning back on a bed, still dressed, although his clothes were full of bloodstains and scorched. His prosthesis was lying on the feet of his bed, where the rest of his right leg would be if he had it.

“I'm all right,” Strike replied, his voice hoarse. He patted himself, feeling himself. He seemed fine. His stomach, he noted, was all bruised, and the upper side of his head was swollen like a golf ball, his eyelid of that side a bit swollen as well, and his lip felt swollen, but his mouth didn't taste bloody anymore. “Where's Robin?”

“She's still in the theatre,” Vanessa answered, her face tense with anxiety. “Her stomach and pancreas were pierced, she was stabbed thrice there, but miraculously, they didn't touch her intestines, liver or lungs, or she would've been dead for hours. The doctors think she could still make it. Her parents are on the way. Matthew was still put as the power of attorney on the papers, but we gave orders so he's not called, the doctors have been warned of the situation and he's been removed from the papers.”

“What happened, Corm?” Ilsa asked, reaching to squeeze his hand. “DI Wardle said you were attacked.” Strike tried to remember, but it was all foggy.

“I can't quite remember now...” Strike admitted drowsily. He was full of worry thinking of Robin, which didn't help him think. “Robin and I were at the office, working. Then a bunch of people came in, all dark, with balaclavas and gloves, fully covered... they started fighting with us and I don't know what happened. When I woke up the building was on fire and Robin was bleeding out, passed-out on the floor. That's all I remember.”

“Thankfully the Army must've taught you some first-aid, 'cause her wound had sheets tied around to keep her from bleeding out too fast,” Wardle pointed out.

“Yeah...” Strike sat up.

“Hey, not so fast,” Lucy stopped her with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The doctor said you're fine but concussed and bruised internally, so you should be resting.”

“Am I inpatient?” Strike inquired.

“No, but...”

“Then I'm signing myself out. Someone tried to kill us both tonight,” Strike said angrily, sitting up and trying to put his prosthesis on not caring about the public, “and if Robin dies, I will never forgive myself.” He added with tears prickling in his eyes.

“Oggy, calm down,” Nick advised, sitting on the verge of the bed. “This wasn't your fault, okay? Even if it was work-related, Robin knew the risks and she accepted this job not because of you, but because she loves what she does. And even if it was Whittaker's fault, she also knew the risks of getting close to him, you didn't put her in danger. No one's catching Whittaker tonight, we know how impossible to find he can be, but police's on it. So breathe, mate,” he patted his shoulder, “you need to rest now. Why don't you sleep a little more, and when Robin's out of surgery we'll wake you up and take you home?”

Strike looked at him for a moment. He felt terrible, but truth was, he was exhausted. His leg was still aching and was in no doubt bruised, he was dizzy, and he could feel a headache coming. Besides, if he fell asleep, he wouldn't feel the passing of time. He nodded slowly.

“You will wake me up, won't you?”

“Of course, I give you my word.”

It was enough with just leaning back a little, and his eyes fell closed right away. Despite his intense worry about Robin and the anxiety in his chest, his body seemed to crave rest so much that it happened naturally, and he barely felt a blanket being tucked over him and a caress of his curls. Before he knew it, he was snoring.

Then hours later, he was gently shook awake and looked around, disoriented. Everything was the same so much that, if it wasn't for the absence of everyone except Ilsa and Lucy, he would've thought he had just fallen asleep.

“Robin's okay,” Ilsa told him softly, with a small smile. Strike straightened and looked at her in awe.

“She okay?” he asked for reassurance. She nodded, and her smile got a little bigger.

“She made it. The doctor said she needed a couple blood transfusions, but he body hasn't rejected it and her stomach and pancreas aren't so bad as for a transplant. They managed to stitch everything up and clean the abdominal cavity to prevent infection, now she's a bit feverish because the contents of her stomach spilled in there for a bit, but they're going to keep her in the ICU to make sure she doesn't get a sepsis infection. Nick's gone to get a full briefing from the doctor and he'll stay with Robin until her parents arrive. They trust him around 'cause he's a doc.”

Strike felt relief wash over himself and he almost cried from pure relief, his eyes closing for a second as he let a long breathe out.

“She's alive,” he whispered, as to believe it himself.

“If all goes well, she'll be out of the hospital in a week,” Ilsa explained to him. “And they've got her so full of antibiotics and painkillers that she's all asleep, she won't even know half this week is happening. She's just sleeping tight like a baby, all tucked in and with a thousand nurses and doctors looking after her, they're great here. So you don't have to worry, okay?”

“I want to see her,” Strike said urgently, sitting-up.

“Tomorrow morning, I'll bring you here to see her, promise. But right now, I'm going to take you home and give you a nice dinner, you must be starving. The doctors don't let anyone but Nick and close relatives with her now, anyway. Tomorrow, we can get her parents to say you're a brother or something.”

Strike nodded, letting the women help him stand-up so he could attach his prosthesis.

“I will see him tomorrow,” he kept nodding. “Oh, God... she's okay. Oh, God...” he continued, to himself, rather shocked.

“Wardle and Vanessa have gone to work, and the firemen are making sure the building, that's burned up to the floor below yours, is safe enough for someone to go pick up your things. Wardle said he would send someone trustful to do it. The firemen suggested putting one of those stairs some trucks have up to the window they used to rescue you,” said Lucy. “At least to grab important files and your personal belongings.”

“Great,” Strike groaned standing-up, and Ilsa put a firm arm around his waist. “Most my things are at Ilsa's anyway...”

“Oh really?” Lucy looked surprised, and kept herself right by their side as they started walking out of the room. Only then did Strike realize that while he slept, his clothes had been changed for clean ones, and Lucy had a plastic bag that seemed to contain his dirty clothes. “I thought you just kept a bag there.”

“We got evicted, a developer bought the building... long story,” he added, seeing she was going to ask more. He was rather dizzy, but Ilsa stabilized him well, and walking slowly helped.

They got into a grey and large lift and Strike let himself be guided through corridors. Suddenly he stopped, seeing a sign pointing the direction for the ICU and feeling an ache in his stomach.

“Ilsa...” Strike looked pleadingly at her. “I think I can't go without seeing her. Just five minutes.” Ilsa pressed her lips together but then sighed and nodded.

“Let's try our luck,” Ilsa suggested, and they walked towards de ICU.

There was a large marble corridor before they got to a nurse's desk and Ilsa put on her best smile.

“Hello. I'm a friend of Robin Ellacott, she's just had surgery, I believe she's here?”

“Uh,” the nurse looked at her with prudence. “I'm sorry, who are you?” Ilsa's smile tightened.

“A lawyer,” she replied. “Ilsa Herbert, look me up. Listen, my friend here is Detective Cormoran Strike, he saved Ms Ellacott's life, they're dear friends, work partners, they were together when she got hurt, and he doesn't feel at ease leaving the hospital without seeing her first with his own eyes. I was just wondering if he could see her.”

“Only close relatives and doctors,” said the nurse. “I'm sorry. Hospital's policy... and it isn't even visiting hour.”

“Can't he at least see her through a glass or something?”

The nurse looked at them with sadness, as if she didn't really want to say no, so Strike stepped in.

“Please,” Strike said, his eyes glassy with anxiety. “Please... last I saw her she was about to die in my arms, and I-,” he felt a knot in his throat and had to take a deep breathe for a second. “Could you maybe take a picture? If I could just... just see with my own eyes that she's alive...”

“Look...” the nurse bit her lip and stood up. “I shouldn't be doing this, but I'm going to let you guys in. But you can only see her through the glass wall, okay? They have a very strict protocol due to the risk of infection, it could kill her.”

“Okay. Bless you,” Strike felt obliged to say, and more thankful than he normally was towards any nurse, he followed her with Lucy and Ilsa, until they reached a glass wall and, on the other side, a bed. Nick smiled at them through the glass, covered with a plastic suit to prevent infection, and Strike's eyes moved to Robin.

She looked so pale, but alive, surrounded by tubes, machines, cables. She was lying on a bed and Strike thought if she had a better face, she could seem asleep. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his palm against the wall, wishing more than ever before that he could touch her, or that somehow, she'd know he was there. That she could feel she wasn't alone and that they were all rooting for her.

  
  



	3. Bad situations

**Chapter 3:**

“Robin,” a voice called her softly. “Robin,” it called again. She tried to open her eyes. “Robin? I think she's waking up...” she got a flash of light and closed her eyes again. “Robin, it's time to wake up...”

Her eyelids felt so heavy it took her a while to blink herself awake, and then everything seemed too much light for a few moments, until her eyes accustomed to the room. Hovering over her, a man grinned, beaming in happiness at her, and his dark green eyes fixed on her blue-grey orbs. He had short, curly dark hair, so thick with curls it was almost pubic, heavy stubble covered the lower part of his face, and he had a small band-aid on the top of one of his temples.

Her brain seemed quicker than her body. She wanted to call his name before her throat had even acknowledged its own awakening, and her throat felt raspy and hoarse, as her voice sounded when she made a first attempt, that only made him smile impossibly bigger. She cleared her throat and tried again, surprised by how weak she heard herself.

“Cormoran,” this time it came clear, though weak, and his calloused thumb stroked her cheek softly.

“How are you feeling, Ellacott?” they had been calling themselves by their surnames almost as a tender nickname for weeks, it was a pet name for them, as well as the one they used when they were angry, worried, or teasing each other. It would've made her smile, if half her face didn't feel rigid, slightly painful.

But the question made her think and she started feeling her tiredness, the heaviness of her body, the lack of desire to move a thumb, the comfort and warmth in which she was, mostly. The room had a dimly light but wasn't too crowded. Her parents, she recognized, Nick and Ilsa, Vanessa, Rebeca, Stephen and his pregnant wife Jenny. Everyone looked between worried and relieved. Robin made a guttural noise as in deep thought, and looked back at Strike.

“Thirsty,” she answered. He chuckled and nodded, moved towards her beside table, poured water from a bottle into a plastic glass, and helped her drink it. She was surprised that it didn't come as the easiest of tasks. Only then did she dare to look down. She flexed her hands, her toes, and felt relieved to have all four limbs, for some reason. And her brain started awakening. She remembered working, something about an eviction, dark figures throwing a chair on Strike, and her own scream as he collapsed to the ground. So she looked at Strike with deep concern, as much as she could muster in her drowsy, sleepy state. “Are you okay?”

Strike looked about as surprised with her question as she felt about being in what she recognized at a hospital. In her mind, he should be the one on a bed.

“Sure, are you?” he said amused. Robin looked at him even more baffled.

“I'm fine, no one threw a chair on me.” She said weakly. And to her surprise, Strike laughed. Not just Strike, but the others as well. She looked around. “What? They threw _him_ a chair. Must've hurt.” Still half laughing, Strike shook her head.

“Yeah, well I'm fine now, thanks,” he replied. “Robin, sweetie,” he got more serious. He had never called her 'sweetie' before and it made her face feel warm. “Don't you remember? You've been stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Robin looked astonished at him. “I don't think so. Sure you're all right?” Strike snorted a laugh.

“We were attacked at the office, Robin,” said Strike gently putting a hand on her shoulder. “Five days ago. We were working one afternoon, late, and I was telling you how a developer bought the building and we are forced to find a new place, remember?” Robin wrinkled her nose slightly, thinking.

“Vaguely,” she answered.

“Well, right then some people burst into the office, all covered, I couldn't distinguish a thing,” said Strike. “I don't even know how many they were, but it must've been a good lot, because the office was a wreck afterwards and they knocked the both of us down. I got off lightly, just some bruises, nothing too bad. You, however, were repeatedly stabbed in the stomach. That's why you're here. And the attackers lighted the ground floor on flames, it extended up to Crowdy's office, we almost got cooked, but thankfully I woke-up at some point and managed to get a firemen's attention through the window, and to get both of us out. You've been in and out of conscience since, but haven't even mustered a word, as drugged as they've had you. Is it better now?”

“Uh, God...” Robin closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the information. Her mother murmured that perhaps it was too much to take in at once, and she had to agree internally. She didn't feel in pain, but she moved a hand tentatively over her stomach, over the sheets. It did feel sensitive. Her eyes opened again. “I'm not in pain. Must be good meds. I've been out for five days?”

“Don't worry, we haven't had work anyway,” said Strike with a shrug. “Could only recover all the files and everything yesterday, and for nothing, because when our clients heard on the newspapers what happened, and you can't really hide a building in down-town London burning up, started calling to cancel. Right now we've got zero clients.”

“Shit...”

“Don't worry Robin, really,” he insisted. “We've got some good savings, and since we had just been evicted, we don't have to pay anything for the building getting burned-down. I'm staying at Nick and Ilsa's, in a few weeks we'll find somewhere else and once I've kicked the arse of whoever's responsible for this, clients will be flowing back. They always do. We're like a high-risk sport, they know it's not always safe, but they still get too tempted.” He half smiled reassuringly, and his thumb caressed her jaw again. “The only thing that matters now is that you get better.”

“Well I'm very pissed off right now,” Robin said indignant. “They've burned-down two years of hard-work. By the way...” she groaned and desisted from trying to sit up. “You seriously waited four days to recover the stuff?”

Strike shrugged.

“They wouldn't let me go in myself, it's a building in ruins. Not too safe.”

“But!” Robin puffed. “Everything's digitalized! Every single file, everything you can access from the Drive account.”

“Drive?” Strike frowned.

“Cormoran, I worked on it for an entire summer, I told you how to use it,” she said impatiently. He beamed, amused by her ability to worry about work and chastise him even under the circumstances.

“I'm sorry, I'm so silly without you around... I forgot you did such a tremendous job, you're right. Very smart of you.”

“It's so we can access even when we're out of the city, you bastard...” he giggled and she half-smiled, shaking her head. “You're awful, y'know? This agency would burn down without me.” She snorted a laugh and Strike giggled at the double meaning.

“That's exactly what happened, damn right.”

“So are you feeling all right, love? Don't you need the doctor?” Linda Ellacott, Robin's mother, asked, squeezing her hand softly.

“No worries Mum,” said Robin. “I'm so high on painkillers, I can hardly feel even a fart.” Stephen and Strike cracked up, and she snorted a laugh.

“Well it's good she still has a sense of humour,” Nick commented smiling.

“Can't even properly think...” Robin admitted, stopping herself to yawn and stretch her fingers. She didn't have more than one IV in the moment, so she was somewhat comfortable. “This is like smoking weed, seriously you guys...”

“Given the circumstances I'll pretend you can't possibly know how smoking weed is like,” Michael commented looking happily at his only daughter.

“Well done Dad,” Stephen said half-giggling.

It was easy to feel giggly with a druggie patient who made them feel such amount of sudden relief just with saying one word. She would probably not be so good when the effect of the medications passed, but right in that moment, it was all right. Eventually they fell into small conversation and Robin stayed mostly quiet, her still sleepy body trying to coax her back to sleep. But she was focusing on Strike's hand on her shoulder, and somehow, it made her wish to stay awake a bit more.

“Hey guys,” Robin murmured after staying quiet for quite a few minutes. “Can I go home?”

“Doc said maybe next week,” Rebeca said. “I told him I'd take care of you, but he still refuses to let you out until then.”

“Didn't he say something about a fever?” Ilsa recalled suddenly, her eyelids closing slightly as she was deep in thought. “Oh yeah, he said you still had a bit of a fever from a tiny infection, he said it's nothing to worry about, but wants to keep you here until you're absolutely ready.”

“Okay...” Robin murmured. “Then I think I'm going to sleep for a bit, if you don't mind.”

“No problem at all, honey. We'll be here if you need anything,” Linda assured, caressing her daughter's cheek lovingly.

Strike excused himself to go make a phone call for a moment, and walked down the long corridor to the closest waiting room, where he phoned Shanker. He knew that if anyone could find Whittaker, it wasn't the police, but Shanker, who hated him as much as Strike.

“Hi,” Strike said into the phone. “Got him?”

“Not yet mate,” Shanker grumbled back. “But we're almost there. How's Robin?”

“She's feeling all right for now, but she's too high on meds to feel anything, so I guess the worst will come later. Make sure Whittaker doesn't get to her, Shanker.”

“Will do. Call you when I know something.”

When the call ended, Strike stood in the white room full of blue chairs, and looked through the window nearby as the rain collided against London with violence. Somewhere in that mass of skyscrapers, the most hated man he knew was free and running away. Somewhere, he was planning the next move.

  
  



End file.
